


Playing

by Nia_Kantorka



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use Mentioned, Rimming, Spanking, Switching (dynamics), Top John Watson (switching implied), bad Dom-etiquette (for the case), lots of feelings in the mix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5352584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_Kantorka/pseuds/Nia_Kantorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Mycroft who wanted John and Sherlock to catch a murderer at a BDSM party. It was Sherlock who decided that John would be the submissive. It was John who finally got Sherlock sprawled naked across his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyrica (LyricaB)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/gifts).



> Dear Lyrica! Writing this fic was delightful and challenging. It took me a long time to have the guts to write my first Sherlock story. In a way it was easy because your wish list was so inspiring. The hardest thing was to choose only _a few_ of your likes. It was a bit intimidating to write for an editor, as an ESL person no less. But I had help from my ‘eliminate all mistakes and put some commas in’-crew. Thank you very much, ladies! I hope you’ll enjoy your gift. Have a merry Solstice and Christmas! 
> 
> PS: Sherlock played all three movements of violin concerto in [D minor BWV 1052](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WDqTc20jxw) by JS Bach. This was the inspiration for the ‘[thing](http://www.ebay.com/itm/Genuine-Real-Leather-Mens-Male-Sexy-Costume-Gothic-Pants-Kinky-underwear-/391232154495)’ John wore at the party.

**Playing**

Frantic violin notes reached his ears as John turned the key and opened the front door of Baker Street. He knew Sherlock played this particular Bach concerto only after a clash with Mycroft. The detective probably imagined some excruciating torture for his insufferable brother as the piece, originally written for harpsichord, was far more aggressive and dark when played on violin. 

John sighed. After a dreadful shift at the clinic he wasn’t keen on handling one of his friend’s strops. He passed Mrs Hudson’s door and climbed the stairs to their flat, carefully avoiding the creaking steps. Sherlock stood with his back to the room, finishing the sombre second part. John held his breath until Sherlock started the lighter third movement, then exhaled in relief. Any time his flatmate finished the whole concerto instead of stopping partway through, he was in a better mood afterwards. 

_Crisis averted, then._ John’s hunched shoulders dropped while his gaze roamed slowly over the lean figure by the window. He didn’t often get the chance to watch Sherlock unrestrainedly. Playing the violin no less. John loved to listen whenever Sherlock coaxed sounds out of the strings instead of torturing them, even when it was this more difficult variety of Baroque music. 

Sherlock was lost in the music, torso swinging slightly, black trousers and white shirt clinging to his moving form. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a pale arm showing lithe muscles at work, guiding the bow with strength and precision. The shirt covering Sherlock’s slim back was only a few shades whiter than his bared skin and contrasted beautifully with dark brown curls. John had touched that skin when Sherlock needed him as his doctor, and he _knew_. Knew how soft and warm it was, how it smelled of lush herbal products, tea, a hint of chemicals, mixed with Sherlock’s musky essence, and how it called to him...like a siren to a sailor. He had spent more than one night reliving memories of said skin under his fingertips while giving his inevitable hard-on a hand.

During Sherlock’s play the locks at his nape brushed over the shirt’s collar at times, the late afternoon sunlight casting an auburn glint on his hair. Those curls were an even bigger temptation than Sherlock’s ethereal skin. Sometimes untamed and wild like the energetic man on the hunt for criminals, at others artfully draped and confined to small waves, mirroring his friend when he wore his impenetrable consulting detective mask. When not clotted with blood, dirt or whatever might come with a case, those locks were silkier and smoother than any hair John had ever touched. The wish to caress and entangle them was kept hidden in the deepest corner of his mind – far away from pale prying eyes. 

A familiar mixture of frustration and affection blossomed in the pit of John’s stomach, leading to a twitching, half-hard cock. _Married to his work_ , he reminded himself, and even years later, the thought didn’t fail to crush inappropriate pictures of Sherlock in his mind – not even during the daytime. John turned around, walked into the kitchen, and put the kettle on. While he ransacked the cupboard for his favourite mug and a second one to steep their tea without any signs of acid or mould in it, Sherlock finished his concert. 

“What did Mycroft want?”

“Ah, well done, John.”

Nobody but Sherlock could give pseudo compliments in such a melodious baritone voice and sound like a priggish arse at the same time. John huffed and turned to see him stowing the violin away.

“Yeah, some of your habits are obvious even to the less ingenious among us. No need to fall all over yourself.”

Ever changing eyes roved over him and John tried to distract the dissecting powers of the brain behind them. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He added milk to their tea, dropped sugar into Sherlock’s mug, and walked over to hand it to him as he passed by his chair. 

“Mycroft needs us for a case.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Your expertise is definitely needed here.” Sherlock frowned at his tea while John sat down and took a sip of his own. “As it’s been some time since I last put carnal desire to good use, I’d appreciate your presence at my side.”

John was lucky he’d already swallowed otherwise he would have spit a mouthful of hot liquid all over his lap.

“What?” John croaked like a frog.

“Don’t be tedious, John. Mycroft wants us to go undercover in the bon ton. We are going to play a couple which indulges in BDSM practices to catch a murderer.” Sherlock gave John a frighteningly calculating look. “And your experience will come in handy, Mr Three Continent Watson.” 

John caught the smug smile tugging at Sherlock’s mouth and knew he was being manipulated by the maddening twat. His anger rose in seconds, but John tried to keep it in check, and choked only slightly at his murmured, “ _Bit_ not good.”

“Why?” Incomprehension was written all over Sherlock’s face.

“One doesn’t throw half-arsed compliments around to get their best friend to follow them into undercover work. Not for a case. Not even for an important one. You tit, you could just have asked me.”

First Sherlock threw him his _Must I, really?_ look, pouted for a minute or so, and then his face became blank. To John’s surprise he was cast an apologetic smile next.

“Please would you help me with this case, John?” 

Before his mind could really process what had happened – if he had fallen for Sherlock’s manipulations again – John nodded and said, “Sure.”

“Tell me more about the case.” He was still processing that Sherlock had participated in what he’d loftily called _carnal desire_ and which John probably would have named sex. He was dying to know the reasons why Sherlock had forgone it. John felt his friend’s scrutinising eyes on him again and blushed as if caught in the act. 

“The case is not what’s been on your mind. You are thinking about the length and breadth of my sexual expertise.” Sherlock’s face gave nothing away of the copious amounts of thoughts he might have stowed away on the topic. 

“I wouldn’t have called it that way, but yes, I am curious. What made you give up sex in the first place?” He couldn’t help the curiosity his voice was tinged with.

“If I tell you about it, I’ll choose our roles for this case. We can discuss your expertise on the matter, but not who is going to pose as what in our undercover work. Deal?”

It took John less than a minute to get Sherlock’s meaning. His imagination ran wild, and he paled at some of the things Sherlock could inflict on him without being able to put an end to it. 

“No. I wouldn’t do you any harm for a case. Not _anymore_.” Sherlock’s arms flailed to emphasis his words. “I swear, John. And I would have done otherwise to keep you safe, if I’d known... I‘ve changed. You know that, don’t you?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He should be used to Sherlock keeping track of his thoughts by now. As disconcerting as it was at times, he felt compelled to soothe the churning waters they were suddenly swimming in. 

“Yes. We both did some terrible things to protect one another. And we’ve hurt each other in doing so. But, what’s done is done.” 

John sighed, thinking about these past years with and without Sherlock. He would rather take a thousand days of this, being home at Baker Street surrounded by Sherlockian madness, than live a single one without him. 

“I would follow you into the pits of hell, and I trust you not to take advantage of me when I’m playing your submissive.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock beamed at him, probably not only because he got his way, but because John had kept pace with his thoughts too. 

“You should pick a safeword, so I’ll know when I’ve reached your limits.” Sherlock’s teeth pinched his luscious, lower lip, showing that he was affected by their discussion as well. He took a deep breath. “And then I will tell you about my dwindled sex life.”

“Violin.”

“Sorry?”

“My safeword. It’s going to be violin.”

Sherlock blinked. “Well, that’s a good choice. It’s highly unlikely for violins being of use in a BDSM sortiment.”

“How do you know?”

“Victor introduced me to some BDSM practises, as he did with sex, and a lot of other things at university. You wouldn’t have approved of half of them. Mycroft didn’t either. And I can see why. Now.” Sherlock paused and John, whose eyes were glued to his face, caught a glimpse of regret on his friend’s chiselled features. “We were two young and spoiled brats who thought themselves high above all those mundane people around.” 

John rose an eyebrow at that and Sherlock gave him a small answering smile. 

“Yes, I was more high and mighty at university than ever. We weren’t friends, not even friends with benefits, as it’s called these days, though we fucked each other’s brains out on occasion.” John frowned, surprised by the filth, but Sherlock ignored him, lost in retrospect. “No, we were confederates in boredom and continuously spiralling in each other’s self-destructive paths. Victor’s part was essential to get me going, but I was the one who walked it. ”

“What happened?”

“I met Lestrade. He plucked me high as a kite from a crime scene and told me to come back when I wasn’t on drugs anymore. That first glimpse of the work, and Mycroft’s persistence, gave me the push I needed to go into rehab. And with the prospect of getting more of it, there was no need to shut my brain off with sex or drugs anymore.”

“So, you never wanted someone beyond...em…to shut this big brain of yours down?”

“Not back then.” John saw a faint flush spreading over Sherlock’s skin, giving his pale face and neck a rosy glow. It vanished under his shirt and he wanted to explore its expansion with his hands, or better, his tongue. But the topic was much too important to get distracted by said physical desires. Shaking himself out of his fantasies, John realised what Sherlock had said. _Oh_. 

His eyes locked with blue-green ones and neither of them said a word. John knew Sherlock would observe his dilating pupils, the tightness with which his hands grabbed the mug to prevent them from fidgeting, and his elevated breathing. They _both_ wanted each other. Another topic he had to come back to in the safety of his own room. 

He put his empty cup on the coffee table. “And Victor?” John finally asked, when the silence became unbearable.

“Died of an overdose a year later.”

“Oh.”

“I would have followed him if it hadn’t been for Lestrade...and Mycroft.”

John swallowed down the bile rising in his stomach, as he thought about what would have happened to him if he’d never met Sherlock Holmes. His truly remarkable best friend. The one John had fallen for so slowly, that he hadn’t even realised it was happening until it had been too late. Thinking that fate might have never given John the chance to meet him... He clenched his fists until his fingernails cut crescents into his palms and the pain brought him back to the moment. 

“It’s a wonder you still can’t remember Lestrade’s first name then,” John said to lighten up the mood. It worked and Sherlock chuckled softly. Warmth spread from those aquamarine eyes and took root in John’s belly. His mind, eager for a distraction, wandered back to the task at hand. 

“Am I going to be your submissive on this case because you’ve been a Dom before?”

“No. I’m going to play the dominant part because the murderer targets them.” 

And before John could even voice his concerns, Sherlock rose a hand. “They went after Doms who had humiliated their submissives in public, at decadent parties in high society. That’s why I need you by my side, John. You will know it’s a game we play to catch them. And you won’t be bothered if I concentrate not only on you, but everyone around.”

“Ah, now the safeword makes more sense. If my temper rises, it would remind me that we’re giving a show.”

“Exactly.”

xox

John shifted uncomfortably in this _thing_ Sherlock wanted him to wear under his new tailored suit.

“Does it fit?” Sherlock bounced up the stairs to his room, sounding as eager as a five-year-old about a ride on a merry-go-round.

“Mhmh.” John didn’t deign to form a proper sentence while he was still watching his crotch being put on display in leather, rivets and straps barely concealing his cock at all. Not to mention that his arse was bare, too. 

“Let me see,” Sherlock demanded from the landing, and John knew he was pouting about being still shut out of the room. 

_Best to get used to him seeing me like this._ John opened the door and Sherlock burst in, already wearing his great coat. 

“Where did you get this...tanga?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, busy cataloguing his body. Heat flooded John under the scrutiny. He stood at attention to get over his own defiance. Yes, he would submit later to Sherlock, willingly, but there was no need to start now or to feel ashamed of his body. He might have gained some weight since his army days, but he was still fit enough from following Sherlock on his chases after London’s criminals to be considered in shape for a man in his mid-forties. Apparently Sherlock thought the same, because his appraising data-gaining had shifted to appreciation. Blue-green circles framed blown pupils and John relaxed. That Sherlock found him attractive clad in a leather string put him at ease and brought out his flirtatious streak.

“Like what you see?” 

“Very much.”

“Ta. And what about the tanga?”

“It’s hand-crafted. I found the design on the internet, but that one looked highly uncomfortable. I hope this one is not?” 

“No. To be honest, it’s strange wearing something straight out of a porn film, but the leather is soft and supple, and the straps don’t touch any skin.”

“Good. Get dressed then. I want to see if the suit fits as well.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

John began to put his clothes and shoes on. Sherlock gave him an approving nod at his attempt to get into his role and John realised he wasn’t immune to the benefits of...doing well and being praised by Sherlock. It happened rarely enough.

This was new. The times he had crossed the D/s line before, he had been the dominant one and never let go of his carefully crafted walls. Not with any of his female ex-partners. Least of all with Mary. At the very beginning he might have felt safe enough around her, yet something had held him back. Some ingrained instinct, which had saved him from making an even bigger mistake than he’d done. _Thank heaven for small mercies_. 

He looked at his reflexion in the mirror. Sherlock’s fashion sense worked on him too: Azure blue shirt and dove grey suit brought out the silver-blond of his hair and made his eyes gleam like the Mediterranean on a cloudless day. He assumed he wouldn’t wear his outfit long enough at the party to impress anyone, besides Sherlock. John shrugged. He was the only one counting anyway.

“Well done, Johnboy. You look dashing in that suit.”

John blushed at being called by his new pet name. In preparation for the event they had discussed how to call each other. Sherlock had also evaluated John‘s preferences in a ten pages long questionnaire. He was sure Sherlock had extracted from it every sexual practice he was comfortable with, the ones he was not, and the things in-between, specially the ones John would feel humiliated and aroused by. These meticulous proceedings had helped to ease his reservations regarding tonight’s party and lull the trust issues he still fought with.

“Come on, then.”

xox

One of Mycroft’s unobtrusive black cars brought them to their destination as the last rays of sunlight disappeared. It was dark when they stopped before an immaculate looking townhouse opposite the Spanish Embassy. It seemed Belgravia was still the place to be for the wealthy deviants in town.

As soon as they left the car, Sherlock’s posture changed. He drew himself up to his full height and radiated an imposing attitude. His features became unreadable and haughtiness shone from his eyes. John’s nervousness at the intimidating surroundings only added to their roles. He felt smaller than ever next to Sherlock. 

Inside, Sherlock took John’s coat and handed it together with his Belstaff to the waiting servant at the wardrobe. John looked around. The interior of the house was very white with its columns, marbled floors, and white walls. Sherlock clicked his fingers before John’s face and commanded, “Follow me.” 

Sherlock led them up the stairs where laughter could be heard. They left the illuminated white of the stairs and entered much darker rooms on the first floor, John following Sherlock always a step behind. There was a bar and a buffet in a big open room with lounges and pillows. Burgundy curtains covered the windows; chandeliers and lamps radiated soft yellow light. 

In the next room one wall was equipped with whips, flogs, crops, canes, paddles, ropes, all sort of cuffs, and more equipment that John couldn’t even name. Hooks with sturdy chains hung from a corner of the ceiling and matching D-rings gleamed on the floor. Draped over a wooden horse was a naked woman. Her hands were cuffed, mouth gagged, and her legs spread by a bar around her ankles. She was getting a thorough beating with a horsehair crop by a masked black woman dressed in white leather undergarments. Her corsage creaked from the exertion and muffled moans escaped the gagged woman’s mouth. 

John felt his cock stir at the sight. A few seconds later the iron clad grip of Sherlock’s fingers latched around his jaw. 

“You will stay focused on me, Johnboy. Don’t think about getting near other people. Don’t even look at them. I am the only one touching you tonight. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock’s acidic tone and the painful pressure on John’s chin were provoking, and for a second his need to contradict Sherlock was nearly intolerable, but then iridescent eyes caught his and told him inaudibly to remember they were playing a game. All tension left him and he became permissive. 

“Yes, Sir,” he rasped through the rough grip.

Instantly Sherlock let go of his face, grabbed John’s wrist and brought it to his mouth. The pink tip of his tongue darted out and licked over John’s pulse point. It was accompanied by the scraping of white teeth and soothing, plush lips. Heat spread through John’s veins, want clouded his awareness, and his cock grew harder. It was good that he didn’t have to watch out for the murderer. 

“Strip.” 

And John stripped. In the middle of the room, surrounded by strangers whose greedy eyes followed his every move. It was humiliating to be told what to do and to get naked in front of others, but Sherlock’s presence remained calmingly at his side. He hung his head to block all those people out, and surrendered to his submissive side. It wasn’t that he craved it or would have pursued it on his own, but now that he was doing it, John realised it was marvellous in its simplicity. To get rid of all thoughts and just follow Sherlock’s orders. He would not only endure them, but embrace the thrill of being obedient.

Next to him, Sherlock slipped out of his suit jacket and beckoned a service girl to pick it up together with John’s clothes lying scattered around his naked feet. Sherlock unbuttoned the cuffs of his tight purple shirt, which he had probably picked because it was John’s favourite, and rolled up his sleeves, slowly and in direct sight of John’s lowered gaze. Of course, he’d observed that John was enticed by his lithe, strong arms and his pale skin. John saw his hand reaching for his chest. And a second later, long, warm fingers were gliding over his left collarbone towards an ugly, crater-shaped scar. Goosebumps rose on John’s skin and he wanted to turn away.

“Shush. I’ve longed to see you like this for a long time. Others might think of you as ordinary, but I know better.” Sherlock’s voice dropped lower and John had to lean into him to catch it. “So, stop being self-conscious about things that make you special, John.” The last sentence was whispered into his ear and nobody caught it, caught Sherlock, abandoning his role to allay John’s fear.

Sherlock’s fingertips stroked over John’s marred flesh, thoroughly taking in its texture and filing away every crook of the torn tissue. And though gaining data was Sherlock’s second nature, his touch was like the first one of a lover, a reverent caress. As if Sherlock had read John’s mind, a murmured _beautiful_ rang in his ear.

It had taken John years and excruciatingly slow steps to finally reach this moment. To admit that he, John Watson, was irrevocably in love with Sherlock Holmes. That there would be no one else for him from here on out. He’d have loved to tell Sherlock, because John was sure he’d like to know. Yet, they had a job to do, an interesting one no less. John could have had better timing. No surprise about that one. Sherlock and he had always had the worst timing. He hoped to change that. Soon.

John breathed slowly in and out a few times to get rid of the urge to catch Sherlock’s lips and snog him senseless. Without even thinking, John met Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, pouring his feelings into his gaze for the observant man to see. And Sherlock saw. His eyes opened wide, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and determination flickered over his face before it became expressionless once more.

Falling back into his role he sneered, “Well, better damaged goods than none at all. On your knees!” Sherlock snapped his fingers once more at him like at a dog, playing the part of a bad Dom to perfection. _This is all for the case_ , John reminded himself, and sank down on the floor, eyes cast downwards. 

“Follow me. Use all fours to keep up with me―if you have to.” 

The twat had said the latter as if he’d done him a huge favour. Cock deflating, John crawled after Sherlock. John was ready to reconsider his earlier thrill of being Sherlock’s submissive, when his friend’s long legs stopped next to a dark green chaise lounge.

“Up!” 

Another snap followed the command and John began to loathe the sound. He tried to get up on the relatively high sofa as gracefully as possible. When Sherlock chuckled next to him he knew he’d fallen flat on the effort.

“On your back, Johnboy.”

Sherlock bent over John as soon as he’d turned on his rear. Warm huffs of air ghosted over John’s chest, brushing blond hairs while closing in on his right nipple. 

“Shut your eyes.”

Anticipation shot through John’s body and his dick took an interest in the proceedings again, only to be constricted by soft leather. It wasn’t painful, yet, and gave him something to focus on. Sherlock’s tongue licked over one nipple while his fingers tweaked the other. He switched sides after some time, and both nubs were hard as pebbles when he eventually let go. John tried to catch his ragged breaths.

“So sensitive,” Sherlock purred, his voice turning John’s blood into lava. His prick was fully erect now and the string’s stripes were adding to his torture. 

“Ah, I could unhook the straps. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Johnboy? But where’s the fun in that? No easy satisfaction for you, I’m afraid.” Sherlock voiced his words in such a mocking way that even the dumbest person in the room got that he was anything but sorry. 

“I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare move. No touching yourself either.” 

And with a gleeful laugh Sherlock left him on the sofa. John tried to listen where he went, but it was fruitless. Sherlock was gone.

xox

“Where did your Dom go?” a soft female voice asked, tinged with curiosity. She’d probably watched him and Sherlock for a while, so she knew he wasn’t allowed to look at her, but he could talk. He mulled over if this was a coincidence. Anyway, gaining some information couldn’t do any harm.

“I don’t know. He sometimes forgets about me at social events when something more interesting crosses his path.” John tried to say it as if _something_ meant _someone_ and that he was used to being neglected at parties.

“He likes to humiliate, does he? He seems to be very skilful in that regard.”

“You have no idea. But I don’t mind. I mean, did you see him? He’s gorgeous. I’m lucky he picked me out of all people.” John didn’t have to fall back on his bad acting skills, because he thanked fate every day for having brought Sherlock into his life. And in a way Sherlock _had_ chosen him. Not that this woman would get his meaning though. 

Before one of them could say anything else a cold baritone interrupted the conversation. “Why do you always attract the attention of tedious women, Johnboy?” The woman snorted, more from laughter than anger, and John could perfectly picture Sherlock’s raging gaze as he deduced her. She did sound interesting.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Not acceptable. You deserve some punishment which will put your pretty arse on display. Open your eyes, stand up, and follow me.”

The moment John’s eyes flew open Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him from the sofa. John got only a fleeting impression of the woman: brown bob, blood-red lipstick, boobs that were obviously fake and too big for her slim frame, heels, and a black fishnet-body. 

He searched Sherlock’s eyes with a questioning look. 

“Later.”

They reached the wooden horse, which was now empty. 

“Bend over.” 

It looked as if the woman wasn’t their suspect. So, John accepted his fate and positioned himself on the horse’s frame. It was shorter and broader than anticipated. John’s head hung down its front and his hands grabbed the two handles at its side automatically. Sherlock stepped behind him, soft trousers brushing John’s thighs and bare arse. 

“Spread your legs,” he heard Sherlock say. His voice was still demanding but held a velvety note which turned John’s knees to jelly. Warm hands came to rest on his bum. John would have flinched if he had an inch of room to do so. As it was, he was trapped between the wood, Sherlock’s body, and his hands. Lean fingers were kneading his buttocks with verve and another wave of heat ran through John’s body. Feeling Sherlock in close vicinity behind him was damn amazing. There was a bulge resting against his crack and, if John wasn’t mistaken, it was as long and lithe as its owner. He knew that if anybody interrupted their game again, he’d scream in frustration, which might be a tad not good for staying undercover.

Sherlock bent over his back and began to murmur into his ears. “You look utterly delectable like this. Oh, the things I could to do to you. But don’t fear. I’m not planning to debauch your arse right now. I want to do that at home. Would you like to see me on my knees too? At your mercy? Yes, I thought so. Me, too. Not yet though. Now it’s my turn.”

Sherlock stepped to the side and his clever fingers unhooked the strap at the back of John’s string; it landed with a clang on the floor. John sighed with relief as his cock sprang free.

“Now comes your punishment. Follow my commands, Johnboy. On three, you start to inhale and exhale in a slow steady rhythm. One, two, three.”

The moment he breathed out for the second time a spank hit his left arse cheek. John yelped in surprise. 

“None of that. Come on. Inhale, exhale,” Sherlock demanded. With the next exhale John’s right side was hit. Then once more his left, right, left, on and on. 

It was mortifying, arousing, and so much more. John concentrated on his breathing, while his heart beat faster and perspiration coated his face and palms. The spanking felt...good. Very good. John knew that Sherlock wasn’t hitting him with full strength. After all, he’d seen the man with his riding crop once or twice. Then all coherent thoughts fled his mind and he just _was_ : content with the stings, the heat, and the rhythm of his breaths...matched by Sherlock’s slaps. If it had gone on for longer, he would have probably lost himself in some trance-like subspace. As it was, Sherlock stopped, after twenty-five blows had landed on each of his buttocks, and John realised how sore and swollen his arse was now that he’d left his peaceful inner bubble. 

“Well done. You’ve been so good.” 

John’s dick had stayed erect throughout the spanking and the following praise only made it twitch more needily. Warm liquid was splattered on his tender flesh and Sherlock’s hands started to knead his bottom, covering every inch with an oily film. The mixture of pain, comfort and heat forced a groan out of John’s throat. Deft fingers found their way up and down his cleft, teasing his pucker, and the base of his balls. John pulled one arm up to bury his face in it, to stifle the embarrassing sounds pain hadn’t brought out, but which were now coming out of his mouth.

Whenever Sherlock’s fingers circled his hole John was tempted to push against them. 

“Look at you. So needy,” Sherlock said teasingly. “When did you start to explore your arse? Mmh? Before you met me, Johnboy? Or after? Maybe you’ve been bi all your life?”

John desperately wanted some friction around his cock or in his arse. He really didn’t care. Best would be both though. He groaned when one finger slowly breached his ring of muscles, only to stop after the first knuckle. John’s moans became whiny and he pushed backwards until Sherlock’s long finger slid into him. He lost himself in the pleasure of rocking back and forth. 

“Who’d have thought a finger up your arse would make you all slutty?”

John wasn’t even mortified anymore. He just wanted to erase all the build-up frustration. Not only was he still at Sherlock’s mercy after a full evening of being teased and his very first beating, he was also in dire need of a deeper connection with the blasted, handsome man behind him. In his desperation he fucked himself on the long slender finger in his arse. A second finger joined the first and the burning stretch was a welcome addition to the sensations. And Sherlock whispered more filth into his ear with that wonderful baritone of his, while his erection was pressed against John’s skin right behind his hipbone. 

“Well, let’s see if I still know where to find a prostate? Will you come just from my fingers prodding your glans? Oh, how I would love to bury myself in you. Can you feel how hard I am?”

That low, sultry voice was tied with invisible strands to John’s belly. His shaft bobbed in the air, his spine sent tingling impulses down to his groin, and his balls were ready to combust. When Sherlock’s slick fingers countered his own movements, pressing relentlessly against that spot over and over again, John succumbed to the onslaught. White hot fire flooded his rigid body while his cock pulsated and pearly liquid spurted on the floor.

xox

“Our murderer is a first cousin once removed of the woman you talked with,” Sherlock said, shaking John out of deep musings on their drive back to Baker Street.

John, who had just been reminiscing about the spectacular orgasm his best friend had given him, and thinking that that was definitely far from their usual madness, turned to the man occupying his thoughts.

“Tell me about it.” 

“Our murder is in love with his cousin who’s in a relationship with a dominant man. He’s also the driver of said man. As the Dom likes to humiliate his girlfriend at all times and especially before others, he takes them both to such parties. The cousin is family of a sort to him. The murderer wanted to kill him, but had to build up the nerve first. So, he practised with – in his eyes – other deviants.”

“You got that just from one look at the woman?” John asked, with awe in his voice.

“No. But I saw how he was watching her and her Dom instead of us. The connection was visible for everyone to see from the looks they shared and the dog hair they all had on their clothes.”

“Amazing. That was extraordinary, Sherlock.”

John saw a proud smile flickering over Sherlock’s face. One that reached the eyes and made them sparkle more green than blue.

“Oh, and he would have followed me as I offended his cousin at the party.”

“Yeah, you were a prick. I assume Mycroft has taken care of the problem as you texted him while I was dressing.”

“I was in character,” Sherlock pouted and added haughtily, “And as it was Mycroft’s assignment, he can tidy up.”

John didn’t want to ruin Sherlock’s high spirits and grabbed his left hand.

“Hush. Everything’s okay. You were brilliant. And I have more important things on my mind. For instance, I’d love to finish what we started at that party. Are you game?”

Their eyes locked and neither was able to look away until Sherlock gave a tiny nod. A smile lit up John’s face. Before he could do anything more their driver coughed politely―they’d reached their destination.

xox

Even though it was a bit awkward, John didn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand while climbing out of the car. The moment the front door closed behind them, he pushed the taller man against the rough wallpaper and pressed their lips together.

He had wanted to do this for years and now he was going to devour this mouth, taking full advantage of having it at his mercy. A low growl escaped John’s throat before he sucked that sinful bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth nipped and scratched until Sherlock gasped under his assault and he was able to dip his tongue into the opening warmth. Their tongues met and he hummed in approval as they slid, twined, and tangled. 

All the while his right hand held Sherlock’s left and he pushed his front against the lean body, as his other hand buried itself in soft silken hair. Sherlock’s hard-on rubbed against his belly and his own cock grew as it pressed against a long thigh. John pushed back because he knew enough about pressure adding fuel to the fire. It was Sherlock’s turn to squirm and moan. He broke their kiss and admired his work. The normally impeccable man looked flustered with wet, rosy lips, messed-up curls, and blown dark pupils. 

“Let’s take this upstairs. Give me five minutes, then meet me in my room.” John didn’t even try to suppress the command in his voice. He gave Sherlock a feral smile in passing, and climbed up the stairs.

xox

He changed into pants, storing suit, shirt and string carefully away, and put lube and condoms on the bedside table. After a short trip to the loo, which included cleaning his teeth, he was ready to face Sherlock. John met him at the door. Sherlock, unchanged but barefoot, looked expectant and relaxed. John captured both those long, slim hands in his much smaller, sturdier ones and sighed.

“Took us some time to get here, right?”

“Yes. But at least now...we...I am ready,” breathed Sherlock, sounding genuine.

“Me too.”

John closed the last inches between them and dove in for another kiss. It started slowly, leisurely, and John relished that he was finally where he should be. It didn’t take long for the languid curling of tongues to grow fierce. Soon, teeth clacked, noses bumped, and lips were sucked and bit with vigour. Eventually, Sherlock yielded, gasping for air. John took the opportunity and dragged him backwards to the bed. With a swift turn he pushed Sherlock on the bed and crawled over him.

His baffled expression was priceless and John giggled like mad. Sherlock joined him with low chuckles, and it was wonderful. Aquamarine irises shone with mirth and love, and John knew Sherlock saw these feelings mirrored in his own eyes. Declarations weren’t necessary, not here and now. Now was the time to worship this man beneath him; his friend, partner, and lover. 

John pressed little kisses from Sherlock’s mouth towards his chin and then licked a path over his ridiculously long cheekbone. Brushing a few locks away he moved to his ear to nibble at the lobe. Sherlock cradled John’s back and his panting breaths showed his involvement, but other than that, he let John do as he pleased. Nips and licks at the hollow under Sherlock’s ear resulted in soft moans, and John yearned to explore more. He slid along the pale throat, biting Sherlock’s pulse point and leaving a mark. John kissed the tan moles carefully until he reached the suprasternal notch, and with it, the edges of two collarbones. 

“As much as I love this tight shirt of yours, it has to go.”

Swiftly unbuttoning Sherlock’s front, he revealed a firm chest. John’s hands slid over sparse hair and pink nipples, and Sherlock squirmed under him, pressing his confined cock against John’s. The amount of friction wasn’t ideal because John sat rather than lay on Sherlock’s body. 

“Let’s get rid of those posh trousers too.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Patience is a virtue, John.”

“You’re one to talk.” 

Silently, Sherlock shimmied out of his shirt sleeves and pulled off his trousers and pants in one swift motion. Meanwhile John shed his own pants. As soon as they were done John pushed Sherlock back on the mattress, and his eyes roamed hungrily over the slender figure. 

“Look at you, all lithe and lissom and gorgeous.” 

John saw the impact his words had. A rosy redness crept over alabaster skin, showing that the handsome man was very much alive and no statue. His flushed erection nested in auburn curls, twitching and leaking pre-come. John’s dick throbbed at the sight of a sprawled naked Sherlock in his bed. He couldn’t wait any longer. John needed to taste Sherlock. His knees slipped between long legs, while his hands came to rest on narrow hip bones and his tongue licked a wet stripe from root to tip. John lapped up musky drops as impatient fingers dug into his short hair to force him further down. 

_Patience is a virtue, my arse._ John stifled a smile as he indulged Sherlock’s wish and took the long, slender cock in his mouth. A deep growl was his reward when John swirled his tongue around its corona. A moment later he started to suck in earnest and soon his head was bobbing up and down the shaft. It had been some time since he’d last sucked someone off, but doing what he’d always loved himself proved to be the key. Low keening sounds reached his ear while Sherlock struggled not to thrust into his mouth. 

Sherlock’s breathing became more elaborate and his attempts at fucking John’s mouth more forceful. With a popping sound John let go of the delicious cock. Not without regret, but they would do this his way now. Hopefully he’d get another chance at sucking Sherlock to completion―soon.

John laughed teasingly when Sherlock made whining, desperate sounds, seemingly unable to form coherent words. _Best to keep going, then._

“No way are you getting off that easily. Not, after you’ve tortured me a whole evening. Turn over.” 

Sherlock huffed, but lay on his front in seconds. John relished the fact that he could see that pert arse bare at last. He remembered vividly how he’d obsessed over it after the sheet incidence in Buckingham Palace, and how long it had taken him to purge its sight from his wanking fantasies. And now he was going to taste it. He’d never done _that_ before. John humped his dick in precocious anticipation against the sheets, seeking friction at the thought. 

He spread Sherlock’s buttocks, heard a gasp, and sank down to take a deep breath. It smelled musky with a hint of herbal soap and utterly Sherlock. He licked circles around the pucker and dipped the tip of his tongue into the warm opening. Sherlock had groaned at first, but now his sounds became muffled as if he bit into a pillow. John was not sorry at all and slicked up the rim before he tried to get in as deep as possible. He let his tongue curl and swirl until gurgled moans and howls showed him that Sherlock was quite desperate by now. 

Finally he let go and reached for the lube and a condom. While he fumbled with the foil, Sherlock regained enough composure to demand, “Would you hurry up and fuck me already.”

“Ah, someone’s eager now. The same someone who just lectured me about patience being a virtue.” 

“Please. John.”

“God. Yes.”

John coated his fingers with lube and pushed one finger inside Sherlock’s arse. Deliberately, he missed Sherlock’s prostate, just glided in and out, followed by a second and third finger to widen the passage. When Sherlock growled impatiently, John prodded the knob for the first time. Sherlock arched off the mattress in a wonderful bow, putting his lean muscles to work, as he threw his head back. It was positively voluptuous, and John’s own desire climbed to new heights. 

In between heavy panting Sherlock whimpered, “I...need...to...see…you. John?”

“Absolutely.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, lacking his usual grace in his haste. He was flushed and sweaty, and his front locks were damp. John thought he had never looked more beautiful. He grabbed a pillow and laid it under Sherlock’s coccyx. He would have probably acknowledged the moment’s significance further if Sherlock hadn’t been so desperate. Instead he positioned his head at Sherlock’s entrance and slid in up to the hilt. They were both moaning now. 

The time for teasing had finally passed and John thrust into Sherlock’s arse with vigour. It was so hot and tight, John had to concentrate hard to not let go and spend himself immediately. He wished he could kiss the sweat from Sherlock’s face, but he was too short for that. Instead, John watched his handsome features. How open and unguarded he was right now. An indescribable joy took root in his heart at seeing Sherlock falling apart by his doing.

“Harder, God John, fuck me harder.”

John picked up the pace and pounded into Sherlock as hard as he could. 

“Will you come for me like this or do you need a hand, love?”

John didn’t know if it was the question itself or the endearment, but Sherlock came at once with a shout. White ropes of come coated his stomach, and the debauched sight in combination with the quivering muscles around his cock were enough to put him close too. John lost all rhythm and just thrust while his balls tightened and his nerves tingled until his body became rigid. He lost himself in pleasure. 

It took them both some time to come down from the high, to calm their frantic panting and acknowledge the world again. John lay flat on Sherlock, their legs tangled. His head rested on one shoulder, while his nose pressed against Sherlock’s throat. He really had an unhealthy fixation on said throat. Strike that – John was obsessed with the whole man. It didn’t matter anymore though. Sherlock was his, he was Sherlock’s, and they were exactly where they belonged.

xox


End file.
